


Delights Not Me

by chess_ka



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Asexuality, Gen, asexual!Martin, brief depictions of non-explicit non-con situations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-13
Updated: 2012-04-13
Packaged: 2017-11-03 14:37:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/382406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chess_ka/pseuds/chess_ka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin is asexual, but he doesn't really know what that is. He thinks he is somehow broken. </p><p>Carolyn and Douglas, seeing Martin's inability to begin a relationship, try to help. It doesn't go exactly to plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is an issue close to my heart. I identify as asexual, though I have had sexual relationships where the sex was actually fine, and quite fun. It was like watching a TV show I didn't really care about because my partner enjoyed it. There is a wide spectrum of asexual experiences though, and the way I'm writing Martin here is not meant to a) be a statement on how all asexuals experience sex or their identity or b) a statement about sex itself. Martin's a fairly aversive asexual here, which I hope doesn't come across as too problematic. I worry about these things :p
> 
> Beta work by the lovely Lady_t_220 :)

It was difficult, at first, for Martin to distinguish this... _wrongness_ from his regular, garden-variety social awkwardness. He had no close friends in school, and only a handful of acquaintances who would talk to him, so the usual bravado-ridden, uncertain, _excited_ pubescent discussions about sex passed him by. He would occasionally catch snippets of these conversations, but they left him rather mystified and embarrassed.

Sex education was excruciating. It offered little-to-no relevant information, telling a group of blushing teenage boys, all awkward limbs and acne, that their “urges” were perfectly natural, and explaining the correct way to satisfy them with a woman once they were older. All of it was utterly alien to Martin; the images of genitalia on the flickering VHS were off-putting, and when the image cut to an animated penis inserting into a vagina, the cool-voiced narrator describing a “pleasurable sensation”, the boys in the class tittered and laughed and made crude comments. Martin felt his face burn and cut his eyes away. He had no idea what these “urges” were, and could not comprehend why they were all laughing. Why was it funny? It just sounded humiliating and revolting and, well... a bit scary. 

He tried. He really, really did. If he _thought_ about it properly, then maybe he'd get these... feelings that every other person in his school seemed obsessed with. He'd heard Simon and his mates talking about how “fit” some girls were, about things they wanted to do to them. Martin had no real idea what it meant for a girl to be “fit”, though he supposed it wasn't really to do with how good they were at sports. Objectively he could see that some women would be considered attractive, but they didn't really affect _him_. He tried looking at the girls in his class, but... nothing. 

Of course, he was still a teenager, still going through puberty. He would get erections, but they did not really bother him. It usually happened when he was in bed or the shower, and he generally ignored them until they went away. Occasionally these erections were persistent and uncomfortable, so he would masturbate purely to get rid of them. It was... well, it was a diverting task, and vaguely pleasurable, but he had no real urge to do it unless absolutely necessary. He was generally glad (if vaguely revolted) when it was over and he could comfortably get to sleep.

One evening, Simon and Caitlin were both out with friends and his dad was downstairs, asleep in front of the telly. Martin snuck into Simon's bedroom, picked his away around the mess and clutter, and cautiously lifted the mattress. He found what he was looking for: Simon's collection of dirty magazines. 

He was determined to see what all of the fuss was about. He was almost sixteen now, and people – fellow pupils, Dad, Simon, other family members – had begun to make teasing comments about finding a girl, at getting himself some experience, about how he'd be more relaxed if he “got some action”. He had wrestled with his thoughts for a long while. The concept of sex left him feeling vaguely uneasy, his stomach clenching and his skin prickling. Everything he knew about sex (admittedly not much at all) just seemed distasteful; even the idea of someone else's mouth on his made him shudder. On the other hand, _everyone_ liked sex. They must do – it was _everywhere_. And it was a natural urge, as common as eating and drinking; not wanting to have sex was surely just as _wrong_ as not wanting to eat. A disorder, of some kind. He could no longer separate his distaste for sex with his self-loathing at how pathetic he was for not wanting it. Well, maybe that could be changed.

Magazine secured, he held it against his chest to hide it as he crept back to his room. He closed his door and turned on the bedside lamp before sitting on the bed. He felt ridiculous, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled, as though he were being watched. It took him a while to get up the courage to open the magazine: even the front cover, with a dark-haired woman lounging in a chair, her mouth open and her large breasts exposed, made the base of his spine prickle uncomfortably. Did people actually find looking at things like this _pleasurable_? He could not fathom it. What was he supposed to do? Imagine her here, with him? Imagine... kissing her, or touching her breasts? He did not want any of those things. He must be doing this wrong.

He took a deep breath and opened the magazine to a random page.

The woman on this page was naked. She was half-reclining on a bed, her eyes closed. Her painted lips were wrapped around two fingers of her left hand, and her right hand was between her legs. For a long time Martin just looked at her face, almost unable to make himself look... _there_. Finally, he did. 

It wasn't attractive. It wasn't repulsive either, which he had half-expected. It was strange, and alien, this opening between her legs with its flaps of skin and sticky-looking wetness. It was fascinating in the same way that looking at a strange underwater creature was fascinating. He knew, from hearing how his brother and his friends spoke, that he was supposed to want to... touch, or taste, or... _penetrate_ , but the idea just left him cold. Why would he want to do that? It just seemed so messy and intrusive. He felt almost embarrassed for the woman on the page, lying there like that to produce a reaction in him, and all he could do was stare at her numbly. 

He closed the magazine and shoved it unceremoniously under the mattress. He'd have to find a way to return it to Simon's room later. Right now he could not stomach even looking at it any longer. He climbed under the covers and switched the light off, even though it was only ten o'clock. In the darkness, the image of the naked woman seemed seared into his eyelids and still he felt absolutely nothing.

He groaned and buried his face in his pillow. There was no escaping it: there was something wrong with him.

***

He was sixteen. A load of Caitlin's friends were around for her eighteenth birthday celebrations. Simon and some of his mates had stuck around to leer at the girls in short skirts for a while before heading out to the pub, and Martin had tried to just keep out of the way. A lot of Caitlin's friends tended to laugh at him, Caitlin's dorky little brother with his silly ginger curls. Some of the nicer ones would call him “adorable” and laugh at him a condescending rather than cruel manner, but he'd still rather not be around with them.

He barricaded himself in his room and buried his head in a book on the history of flight, trying to block out the heavy music and shrieking laughter from downstairs. He was just about succeeding when his door creaked open.

“Oh,” said a quiet, choked voice. “Sorry, I thought this was C-Caitlin's r-r-room.” Martin had a brief glimpse of a blonde girl with red-rimmed eyes before she began to close the door.

“Are you okay?” he blurted out, because irritating though Caitlin's friends were, he hated to see people upset. The girl hesitated, and then slid into the room, closing the door and leaning against it. 

“I guess. Probably just drunk too much. Pretty stupid, huh?” She gave him a watery smile, wiping her eyes and streaking her mascara.

“It's okay,” he said. He had absolutely no idea what to do, but he couldn't just ignore her. “Um. Here.” He closed his book and scrambled to his feet, grabbing a box of tissues from his desk. She came over and took the box, another weak smile on her face.

“Thanks. You're sweet. I'm Alice, by the way. Martin, right?”

Martin was fairly certain that he wasn't sweet, but he didn't say anything. He just nodded.

“It's just...” she sighed, glanced around. “No, you don't want to hear this. I'll leave you alone.”

Really, Martin would have liked that. He couldn't bear it when people were sad and upset, but he had absolutely no idea what to do with a crying girl in his room. But he couldn't just let her leave, that would just be cruel. “It's... okay,” he mumbled. “You can tell me. If you want, obviously, you don't have to. You can go if you like, but if you want to talk then you can. To me.”

“Are you sure?” She sat herself on the bed and, without waiting for an answer, launched into a jumbled explanation that involved many different people. As far as Martin could work out, she had a crush on someone who didn't reciprocate, and said person had been 'getting off' with someone else downstairs and had proceeded to make a cruel comment to Alice.

“Um,” said Martin.

“I told you it was complicated,” Alice sighed. “I just... I don't know, maybe I am a lesbian, but I'm not sure. I really thought there was something going on with Jen, we've always been so close, and now-” her voice wobbled and broke. “I've never even kissed anyone though, so I'm not sure. Maybe I should try kissing guys? What do you think?”

Martin had absolutely no idea what he thought. The politics of friendship groups, of sexuality, of _kissing_ wasn't something he had ever concerned himself with. “Er,” he said. It didn't seem to be enough.

Alice sniffed. “You're quite cute,” she said, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

Martin gawped at her. He suspected he resembled some sort of ginger fish, which was decidedly not “cute”.

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Er, I- no, I-” he stammered. What was going on? Why was she asking that? 

“Can- can I kiss you?” she asked. “I mean, not as a- a girlfriend thing, but just to see? I've never kissed anyone before. Have you?”

“Um. No.” _And I don't really want to_ , his thoughts supplied. _But maybe,_ said a reasonable part of his mind, _It's worth a try. See what it's like – you never know, you might like it. There has to be a reason people are so obsessed._

“Well, we don't have to. I know I'm all gross at the moment. I suppose you don't want to kiss a girl who's been sobbing everywhere. It was a stupid idea.” She looked at her lap.

“Um. No, I mean- well, we, er, could. If you want.”

Her head jerked up, and she smiled. “Are you sure?”

She reached out and touched his face gently, shifting closer so their legs touched. He was suddenly very aware of his arms and hands. What was he supposed to do with them? He tried mirroring her movements, and touched her face too. It was still damp from tears, but it was okay. This was okay. Her other hand reached up and ran through his hair, so he did the same to her. Her hair was very soft, and it felt lovely between his fingers. 

He was so busy concentrating on the pleasant sensation of her hair that he didn't realise how close her face was to his. His heart was thundering in his ears but before he could do anything she had pressed her lips to his.

Her lips were soft, if slightly sticky from her make-up. It wasn't particularly unpleasant, though, and over quickly. She pulled away and smiled at him. He tried to smile back, but wasn't sure if he succeeded, and then she kissed him again.

This time she didn't pull away, and then her mouth was _moving_ on his, and that was strange. It wasn't awful though, so he tried to mirror her movements. He didn't hate this, so that was good, right? 

Then suddenly her _tongue_ was there, on his lower lip, and pushing past his teeth and it was hot and wet and invasive and then her hand was on his thigh and he did _not_ want it there, it was all too much and too close and it needed to stop right _now_.

He pulled away, gasping. 

“Hey,” said Alice soothingly. “Are you okay? Was that okay?”

“I-” He couldn't breathe properly. He needed her to leave. He needed to be on his own to get his head around this. “I – look, I just- could you... go, please? I'm sorry, I'm really sorry.”

“Oh,” she said, sounding hurt. “Oh. Right. Fine.” 

He didn't watch her go, just stared at his hands clenched on his thighs as he tried to steady his breathing. One thing was certain – he never wanted to do _that_ again.

What on earth was _wrong_ with him?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carolyn and Douglas make a bet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta work by the lovely Lady_t_220 :)

“I can't watch any more,” Carolyn muttered, setting down her gin-and-tonic. “It's just too painful.”

“How can someone fail so continually and in so many different ways?” Douglas mused, watching Martin with amusement writ large across his features. “Someone should make a documentary about him; there are probably entire textbooks on human behaviour that could be written based on Martin Crieff.”

“He is the most hopeless human being on the planet. And I say this as the mother of Arthur.”

“Yes, so you're an expert in the subject of hopeless humanity.”

They lapsed into silence, watching Martin attempt to talk to a woman. He had been getting progressively redder in the face, and had run his fingers through his hair so often that it was standing on end. He looked really quite manic. The woman, to her credit, was looking at him with something resembling concern and pity rather than horror, which Carolyn imagined would have been the sensible reaction. It was certainly how she tended to view her captain, at any rate.

“He's got a _uniform_ ,” Douglas muttered. “A _uniform_. It's a sure fire way of masking incompetence! It can make even the ugliest of chaps into a sex god!”

“Martin's incompetence overpowers even the wonders of a uniform.”

The CEO and first officer heaved twin sighs of despair, and ordered more drinks. 

“We should help him,” said Douglas.

“Well _I'm_ not wading over there to extract him from this. He can suffer it alone, as far as I'm concerned.”

“Oh, not with this _particular_ situation. I'm looking forward to seeing just how long the poor girl pities him for. No, I mean, we should help him in future. Give him a leg-up in the world of romance, so to speak.”

Carolyn eyed him shrewdly. “Douglas, this sort of charitable feeling is out-of-character. Are you feeling all right?”

“Perfectly all right. And I wouldn't exactly call it _charitable_. How do you feel about a little light-hearted contest?”

Carolyn took a sip of her drink, watching Martin on the other side of the bar. The woman patted him awkwardly on the arm and gave him a sympathetic smile before walking away. His shoulders seemed to slump in defeat as she left. She turned back to Douglas, who was watching her with a knowing look in his eyes.

“Tell me more.”

The rules were simple. Martin could not know that Douglas and Carolyn were in any way involved – no setting him up on blind dates. No overtly introducing him to people. No giving him phone numbers. Everything had to seem to happen by chance. The first person who found Martin a successful date won: if it was Douglas, he got an extra month's salary. If it was Carolyn, Douglas would work for free for a month.

Carolyn wrote the rules on a napkin, accompanied by her signature. Douglas added his own with a flourish, and they clinked their drinks together. 

“No cheating, First Officer Richardson.”

“I wouldn't dream of it. May the best man win.”

Carolyn raised one eyebrow.

“May the best _person_ win,” he amended. “Which will be me.”

Carolyn swirled her drink thoughtfully. “Well, we'll just see about that.”

On the other side of the bar, Martin ordered another whisky.

***

Douglas just _knew_ he was going to win, and straight out of the box, too. Laura was a sure-fire hit: she was thirty-two years old, a veterinary technician who tended to adopt stray, pathetic animals, and she liked uniforms. Given that Martin was a walking, talking, uniform-wearing pathetic stray, there was absolutely no way this could fail. 

“This is exciting,” she said, grinning at Douglas. They were sat in an airport bar in Luton; he had managed to escape duties on GERTI early in order to meet Laura here. She had been very happy to go along with his plan. “How do I look?”

“Lovely,” he told her. It was true; she wasn't beautiful by any stretch of the imagination, but she was probably what people would call 'cute'. She was inoffensive and non-threatening and clearly very nice. “Now, remember that he's not likely to talk normally for quite a while, but give him a chance and he'll manage eventually. Okay?”

“Oh, that's fine,” she said, smiling. “I get it if he's a shy, nervous type. I'll manage. Now get lost, okay?”

“Right, I'm going. You know who you're looking for?”

“Pilot's uniform. Red hair. Freckles. Got it.”

Douglas tipped his hat to her. “Excellent. Good luck, Miss Tebbit.” She gave him a mock salute, and he meandered away to ensure that Martin would make it to the correct bar.

***

“First round's on you, captain,” Douglas said, clapping Martin's hat on his head. “Now get going.”

“First round?” Martin said, narrowing his eyes. “Douglas the layover's only a few hours.”

“Yes, plenty of time to have a couple of drinks, unless you stand there arguing with me about it. Go.”

Why Douglas insisted on this bar Martin didn't know, but he was too tired to protest over-much. Carolyn and Arthur had vanished, presumably into the depths of the duty-free, so it just left him with Douglas. His first officer had dispatched him to find seats and drinks whilst he went to the loo.

There were a couple of spare stools at Douglas' chosen bar, so Martin plonked himself down. God, he was tired. He really felt he could do with a heavy dose of caffeine since alcohol wasn't on the cards. 

“Long flight?” said a voice next to him, and he nearly fell off the stool. The speaker turned out to be a woman sat nearby, watching him over her drink.

“Um. Oh. Yeah, f-fairly long. From Dubai. Th-though I suppose that's not _too_ long, er-” he broke off and cleared his throat. “How about you?”

“Oh, I'm just waiting. My flight won't be called for hours yet.” She smiled and shifted up a couple of stools so she was sat next to him and offered her hand. “I'm Laura.”

“Martin,” he shook her hand and tried not to stare too obviously. Strange women didn't introduce themselves to him in bars. Why was she talking to him? 

She was, it turned out, pleasant to talk to. She asked him lots of questions about being a pilot, and seemed genuinely fascinated in what he told her. She told him about her work, which sounded interesting (if a little gory at times), and Martin could hardly believe he was having a normal conversation with a woman he had just met. 

“So where are your favourite places to fly?” she asked, leaning closer and laying her hand on his arm. She twirled a strand of hair around a finger of her other hand, and Martin stared.

She was _flirting_. With _him_.

His stomach sank. Now he needed to get out of this. He hadn't meant to imply he was interested! He was just _talking_! 

“Um. I- well, I like a lot of places, and, er, well, when you fly you only really see airports and once you've seen one you've seen them all, unless the airfield manager turns out to the crazy and tries to trap you and uh-” he was babbling, and he tried to move his arm out from under her hand without being too obvious about it. It proved very difficult, and now she was _stroking_ his sleeve. Why was she doing that? Where the hell was Douglas?

“Trap you?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “What on earth?” 

“Well, er, it's a long story really, and-”

She smiled. She had a pleasant smile. “Well, maybe you should take me out for a drink sometime and tell me?”

“What?” he squeaked. She wanted to go on a date with him? Or maybe she didn't. Maybe she wanted to go out as friends, because they'd been talking quite normally until she touched his arm, so maybe they could go out and just talk, and that would be good because he needed some more friends.

“Sure, it would be fun,” Laura said brightly. “It could be _really_ fun.” 

Alarm bells sounded in Martin's head. He couldn't do this. He had absolutely no idea how to tell her he didn't want this. He didn't want her to know how dysfunctional he was, and he didn't want to have her touching him like that. Oh God, what should he _do_?

“Look,” she said, clearly not taking his stunned expression for what it was. “I'll give you my number, okay? Then you can give me a call.” She scribbled her phone number on the back of her drink receipt and tucked it into the breast pocket of his uniform. 

“Um-” he said.

“Call me,” she said firmly, smiling. “It was good talking to you.” Then she kissed his cheek and walked away through the airport crowds. Martin sat where he was, feeling completely blind-sided by what had just happened.

“Cute girl,” said the tattooed woman behind the bar. “Well done.”

Martin just nodded dumbly, and slid off the stool. He'd better go and make sure GERTI was all ready for take-off. 

***

“Bad luck,” said Carolyn a few days later, not even bothering to hide the glee in her voice. They were sat in her office-cum-cupboard, supposedly discussing Douglas' incomplete log book.

“It relied too much on Martin _picking up a phone_ and _calling_ her,” Douglas muttered. “But don't gloat too much Carolyn – you haven't even found anyone yet.”

“Don't be so sure, fellow Cupid. Soon you will see exactly how it's supposed to be done.”

Privately, Douglas doubted that. True, the plot with Laura had not worked as he had hoped, but she had given him some valuable information he was going to keep from Carolyn. On giving Douglas a run-down of what had happened, Laura had let slip something _very_ interesting:

“To be honest, Douglas,” she had said thoughtfully, tapping her lower-lip, “I'm not entirely sure women are his area.”

“Hm. What gave you that idea?”

“Call it a hunch. I've got a pretty good success rate with working these things out, and I am pretty certain your captain isn't exactly straight.”

Douglas had wondered, briefly, whether Martin might be gay. It seemed a possibility worth exploring, and if it were true then he had one-up on Carolyn. Now he just needed to find a man who might possibly be interested in Martin.

***

Carolyn watched Douglas go, chewing her biro thoughtfully. On paper, the girl Douglas had found _should_ have been a good catch for Martin: kind, confident without being overbearing, sympathetic to the plight of socially awkward pilots... and yet it hadn't worked. Of course, this was excellent news for Carolyn, but it meant she would have to think very hard about how to introduce _her_ prospective young lady to her captain.

She had to find some way of taking all responsibility for the date out of Martin's hands. He could not be relied on to call someone, or to make arrangements, or possibly even to show up. This was going to require a lot more thought than she had previously anticipated.

Of course, Carolyn was a remarkably intelligent woman. She would think of _something_.

***

“Let me get this straight,” Douglas was saying later. “You want _us_ at your party?”

“Well, _want_ is a strong word,” Carolyn replied, “but you have been invited, so I suggest you take it as the honour it is, and say you'll come.”

“It might be a trap,” said Martin, sharing a significant glance with Douglas. “She'll cook us and serve our flesh as hors d'oeuvres.”

“You'd make terrible hors d'oeuvres. She'd have to use your bones for cocktail sticks.”

“Shut up, both of you. You're coming, and that's that.”

“Gosh, Carolyn, anyone would think you were _eager_ for us to be there.”

“I simply don't appreciate this attempt to turn down my rare hospitality. You should be grovelling at my feet for giving you this opportunity, snivelling underlings. Now, go and get GERTI ready. Snap to it.”

***

Martin was actually looking forward to Carolyn's birthday party. Admittedly this mostly stemmed from the fact that there would be a great deal of food, so he would be able to enjoy a solid, non-aeroplane meal for the first time in days. Also, there would probably be wine which meant he could get tipsy and therefore get rid of many of his crippling insecurities for an evening. He might even be able to enjoy himself. If nothing else, he could have some fun with Arthur.

What actually seemed to happen was that women kept on talking to him. He had absolutely no idea where all these women came from: did Carolyn really make friends with groups of thirty-somethings? It seemed she did. And a lot of them were inexplicably going out of their way to talk to _him_. 

Most of them were perfectly nice, and he was able to have decent conversations with them – helped along by the alcohol, since most of them didn't seem to mind how giggly it made him – though some where rather too... suggestive for his liking. He finally extricated himself from a very awkward conversation with a doctor called Tanya, who kept pressing her leg against his, and set out to find Douglas or Arthur.

Arthur, unfortunately, was sitting with a group of three women. They were _everywhere_. It would be fine, except that a lot of them appeared to have made it their personal mission to make Martin as uncomfortable as possible. He was about to beat a hasty retreat, when Arthur hailed him loudly, and he had no choice but to go over.

“Hey Skip! This is Merry, Tin Tin, and Freya. Guys, this is Skipper!”

“Martin,” he corrected, sitting down with them. “Hi.” He only just stopped himself from asking what sort of parents named their child _Merry_ or _Tin Tin_ , but it was a close thing.

One thing about Arthur being in this group was that Martin did not have to be anywhere near the centre of attention. Arthur told all the stories, with Martin chipping in now and again. The girls seemed to know each other through their interest in horses, and told stories of their own. It was fun. None of them were trying to touch Martin or press against him or anything, and were just good company.

Later in the evening, he found himself talking to Merry as they helped themselves to more wine. 

“Do you know anyone here?” she asked.

“Apart from my colleagues, no.” 

“Yeah, I only know Arthur and the other girls. I get a bit overwhelmed by all these people.”

“You don't seem overwhelmed.”

“Yeah, alcohol helps with that,” she laughed, raising her glass. Martin grinned, and mimicked her.

“Here's to combating shyness with wine.” 

They edged their way through the crowded living room, trying to find somewhere to sit. He wasn't sure if it was the alcohol talking, but Martin felt quite comfortable in Merry's company; she wasn't pushy, and seemed to genuinely want to talk to him. They eventually ended up on the stairs, which wasn't exactly comfortable, but it was better than nothing with the amount of alcohol currently coursing through Martin's system. 

Martin introduced Merry to some of MJN's word games, and she turned out to be very fun to play with. After a few rounds of Rhyming Journeys and a quick go at Film Titles That Sound Better With One More Word, they began to make up back-stories for the other people at the party.

“How about him?” Martin asked, pointing at a man with salt-and-pepper hair who was drinking alone.

“Oh, I think he's trying to get up the courage to ask out her there,” Merry pointed at a woman with blond ringlets. “He's trying to work out whether she'll put out tonight. Unfortunately for Mr Tinting-His-Hair, she's got her eye on the guy in the blue shirt over there.” She gestured extravagantly with her wine glass, slopping some over Martin's leg. “Oops, sorry!”

“It's okay,” Martin assured her. “Don't worry. They're old.”

“Are you sure? I'm so clumsy, I didn't-”

“ Really, it's fine, don't panic.”

“Okay, okay, sorry,” she smiled uncertainly. “You're really nice, you know. Most people would be mad.”

“I'm sure they wouldn't.”

“Well, maybe not. But you're still really nice. I know nice is a horrible way to describe someone, but still.”

“I don't mind. It's a good change from 'dolt'.” 

Merry laughed. “Aw, that's mean. I wouldn't call you a dolt.” She patted his shoulder. He didn't mind that. Shoulder was fine. He patted her shoulder too, so she knew it was fine. 

“You're fuzzy,” he told her.

“Fuzzy?” 

“Yeah. Well no, not you, you're not hairy or anything. Except on your- your head. I mean you look fuzzy. To me.”

“I think that's a sign of being drunk, Martin.”

“Mm. Yes. Drunk.”

“You're an adorable drunk.”

Martin frowned. “Am not. Why do people insist on telling me I'm adorable? 'm not a- a- a _baby cat_.”

Merry leant her head on his shoulder, giggling. “You are. A ginger, baby cat.” She reached up and petted his curls. It was quite nice, having her warm weight against him without it being suggestive of anything. He wasn't sure how much he'd like it were he sober, but right now he was willing to let it happen. He closed his eyes.

“Martin?” Merry mumbled.

“Mm?”

“You're a really nice guy.”

“Thanks.”

He was never entirely able to piece together what exactly happened. At some point, Merry went from leaning against his side to being pressed against his front, and her hands were on either side of his face so he couldn't turn away, and then she was pressing her mouth wetly against his lips, and then all over his face and then on his mouth again. 

“Merry,” he managed to gasp out once she had moved away from his lips. “Merry, don't.”

“Oh God,” she groaned. “Oh God, you're right. I'm sorry. You're drunk, I'm drunk. Bad timing.” She put her face in his shoulder. “Would it help if I told you I am entirely consenting here so you don't have to feel bad?”

“No. This is a bad idea.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be,” Martin muttered, trying to extricate himself from her. “Really, Merry, don't be sorry. Just... don't.”

“Okay.” She finally sat up and moved away from him, and he breathed out in relief. “Would... I mean, if we were sober, would it have been okay?”

 _No_ , he thought. _No, never, no._ But he couldn't tell her that, because it would upset her: she'd think it was because of her. But it was him, all him, and he had no idea how to explain this properly. Any attempt at explaining would involve admitting that he'd never had sex, never wanted to have sex, and that was a humiliation he never wanted to face, especially not whilst drunk. She was watching him expectantly. 

“I'm not expecting anything,” she said. “No strings-attached fun, that's all, Martin. We're adults, we can do that. It's just fun, you know?”

It didn't sound fun. The very idea sent a creeping dread down his spine. He wished he were at home, in bed, alone. Her hand was on his thigh. Why were all these people _touching_ him all of a sudden? Was he giving out some sort of signal? 

“No,” he said, shaking his head violently. “No, Merry, thanks, but- no.” He stood up, his head swimming. “I've got to- sorry.”

He left her sitting on the stairs and locked himself in the bathroom, feeling panicked and guilty and utterly humiliated. 

***

“I am going to give you the benefit of the doubt here,” Douglas said, “and presume that your master plan _wasn't_ for Martin to get drunk and leave a girl sat on the stairs?”

“Of course it wasn't,” Carolyn snapped peevishly. She handed Douglas a scouring sponge and dragged him to the sink. “If you're going to gloat, at least make yourself useful. If you absolutely _must_ know, the young lady Martin was going to meet tonight couldn't make it. Her father got taken into hospital.” Her tone said exactly what she thought of _that_ excuse. “Do you really imagine I would have planned for Martin to get drunk with one of Arthur's Pony Clubbers?” 

“Far be it from me to judge your matchmaking techniques,” Douglas drawled, somehow still managing to be smug whilst wearing a pair of marigolds.

“This isn't over, Douglas,” Carolyn warned. “You will be working for free before you know it.”

“Your optimism is beautiful to see. I shall very much enjoy crushing it.”

“Shut up and get these dishes clean, you cretin.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go too far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Depiction of a non-con situation in this chapter. It is not explicit and does not get very far, but it is there.
> 
> Beta work by the lovely Lady_t_220 :)

Martin began to seriously worry that he was unknowingly giving out some sort of siren call over the next two weeks. He had never been flirtatious, for obvious reasons, although he tried to be nice to people. But now he couldn't seem to be anywhere public for any length of time without someone trying to flirt with him. At first it had been unnerving, even slightly irritating. Now, he was starting to feel really quite panicked and upset whenever it happened, and he had absolutely no idea how to make it stop. 

First, there had been Georgie in Costa Coffee. All he had wanted to do was buy a take-away coffee and then go for a walk, but she had practically cornered him at the counter and he hadn't really known how to extricate himself from her. Before he knew it she had invited herself to walk with him. He was sure he wasn't a sterling conversationalist, but Georgie seemed more than capable of keeping up a constant stream of chatter by herself. In the park she had linked her arm through his, and soon he found himself making a hurried excuse about needing to meet a friend and hurrying off, hands in his pockets. It had taken most of the day to shake the cloying, trapped sensation, and he hadn't dared go back to Costa Coffee since.

After Georgie there had been Harry, a good-looking chap who was a first officer at RyanAir. He had met Martin in the pilot's lounge where they had been grounded for a few hours, and had struck up a conversation. Harry had been funny and interesting, and piloting wasn't 'just a job' for him: he too had wanted to be a pilot from a young age. Martin was thrilled to be making friends with someone who _understood_ , and felt surprisingly at-ease in Harry's company. When it was announced that they wouldn't be flying until the following day, Harry had suggested that MJN meet up with a few people from RyanAir that evening.

The evening was very fun, and Martin had been enjoying himself. That was until he and Harry had been outside the hotel getting some fresh air, and Harry had put an arm around his shoulders. 

“I should be going to bed,” Martin said quickly, pulling away. 

Harry tightened his grip. “Oh no, not yet. Wait a bit.”

“I'm just kind of cold, and I need to get some sleep-”

“I can warm you up,” said Harry, and the arm around Martin's shoulders squeezed him tightly. Martin wished people would notice how tense and uncomfortable he clearly was when they did things like this to him.

“Thanks, but I just-”

Harry chuckled. “Relax, Martin. It's fine. There's no one here to see.”

Martin's chest was starting to tighten and he tried once again to remove himself from Harry's grip without being too obvious. “See- see what?” His voice had risen at least an octave.

“If we do this,” said Harry, and he gripped Martin's chin with his other hand and turned his face and kissed him. It wasn't a gentle kiss, either. It was a deep, needy kiss, with lots of tongue and a hint of teeth and _why_ wasn't he noticing that Martin wasn't reciprocating?

“Calm down,” Harry murmured against Martin's mouth. “You're so tense. Just let me-” and he went to kiss Martin again and blind panic took over for a moment. Martin shoved Harry hard in the chest, causing him to stumble back. “Hey, whoa!” Harry exclaimed, sounding hurt. “Hey, what was that- didn't you like-?” He looked upset, and Martin's stomach squirmed with sudden guilt.

“Sorry,” he stammered out. “Sorry, but I – I can't. Sorry.”

“Why didn't you say?”

“I didn't know how, I didn't think you thought-” he could barely get a full sentence out.

“Jesus,” muttered Harry, passing a hand over his face. “Jesus. Okay. I'm sorry, I really thought you were interested.” Martin shook his head, trying to breathe normally. “Oh God, I feel like a prize idiot. I never would have- not if I thought-”

“It's fine,” Martin managed to say, his voice tight and unhappy. “It's... fine. I think- I'll just go to bed.”

Harry nodded sadly. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

They looked at each other for a beat longer, before Martin turned on his heel and left. Once in his hotel room he brushed his teeth for a solid two minutes before changing into pyjamas and crawling into bed. His brain was whirring and he felt as though his stomach was lined with hot lead. Self-loathing warred with a quiet horror in his chest, and he just felt utterly miserable.

In the ten days following Harry there were two more women: Gina and Polly. By the time he had escaped from Polly, who had become very flirtatious whilst she was ostensibly doing some repairs on GERTI, Martin was beginning to wonder whether he was, in fact, going mad. He had begun to exist in a near constant state of low-level panic which, considering that his usual approach to life was hardly calm and controlled, was starting to become a serious problem.

It wasn't as though he had anyone to confide in, either. Usually he ended up spilling any of his problems to Douglas, but there was no way he could talk about this to _Douglas_ , of all people. Douglas, he of a thousand stewardesses, would definitely laugh himself silly and then tell Martin he was _lucky_ and he should take all of these people up on their offers. He would then mock Martin mercilessly. The idea of how Douglas would react if he found out how Martin felt about sex, or if he discovered that he was a virgin, was too horrific to even contemplate. 

It had occurred to Martin that maybe he should take one of these inexplicably-eager people up on their offer. Maybe sex wouldn't be that bad? Maybe it could be something he'd learn to enjoy with time, or could at least become something that didn't make him feel panicked and sick? It might be a small price to pay for having a relationship. 

He had long ago given up any hope of being with someone. He tried not to think about how desperately lonely he sometimes felt, because there was no point. Whilst people tended to insist that sex wasn't the most important part of a romantic relationship, it was still a crucial element. Martin had no idea why anyone would go out with him in the first place, but they _definitely_ wouldn't if they knew he wouldn't have sex with them. And even if he made himself do it, that was hardly fair, was it? No one deserved to be with someone who just endured sex for the sake of it. It was hardly conducive to a fulfilling relationship.

There was no getting away from it: sex, to Martin, was intrusive and violating and the very idea of it made his skin crawl and his chest tighten and nausea to roll in his stomach. Sometimes the sheer force of this failure that he couldn't overcome made him want to weep with the unfairness of it all. 

No. No matter how many people bafflingly tried to throw themselves at him, the fact was this: he was better off alone.

***

“Morning, Carolyn.”

Carolyn looked up from the paperwork she was filling in with an ominous red pen, and waved Douglas to a seat. “You're here first. What is the world coming to?”

“I'd say the apocalypse is approaching. It's the only explanation for _both_ of us failing in our mission.”

“Mission?” Carolyn snapped, not looking at Douglas as she scribbled out several figures with more force than was strictly necessary.

Douglas raised his eyebrows. “Operation Cupid, of course.”

“Oh. Yes, yes of course. Well, I will admit that, for now, I'm stumped. Martin is officially more useless than I ever imagined.”

“Agreed. It's as though he is actively trying to fail.”

Carolyn snorted. “Are you giving up, Douglas?”

“Not at all. I am trying to formulate a different approach, since clearly we cannot leave him to his own devices at all.”

“I'm sure he'll appreciate our efforts one day.”

“Oh, he will. Once he's managed to actually have sex with someone he'll be fine.”

Carolyn wrinkled her nose. “That is not an image I ever want in my head, thank you. Now go and be useful somewhere else, I have a lot of important things to do.”

***

Martin seemed very twitchy these days, even more so than usual. Douglas watched him through their pre-flight checks, noting how stressed he was looking. He hoped that, once his scheme succeeded, Martin would be calmer. A bit of stress-relief would work wonders. He just needed to work out – subtly, of course – what sort of person would be able to help. Because so far, he and Carolyn had clearly not found Martin's type.

Of course the irritating boy would be the picky sort.

“So, any news for me, captain?” he asked once they are in the air.

“News?” Martin asked vaguely, checking their altitude.

“Any exciting the developments in the life of Martin No-Middle-Name Crieff?”

Martin gave him a wary glance. “Why would there be?”

“ _Well_. What about that attractive chap from RyanAir a couple of weeks ago?” Douglas had been so confident about Harry: a good-looking, easy-going man who was obsessive about planes? He could not comprehend why that had failed, unless Laura was wrong and Martin had no interest in men.

“O. Yes, I suppose he was nice.”

“Nice.”

“Well, yes. Why, what do you want me to say?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing. You just seemed to get on well. You spent hours talking to him, after all. Are you going to see him again?”

Martin's shoulders tensed minutely. “I doubt it.”

“Why not?”

“What, I spend one evening talking to someone and we have to be best friends? You spent all evening talking to that blonde woman – are you going to see _her_?” 

All right, so Martin wasn't gay. Douglas mentally crossed off any male names on his rapidly dwindling list of people who might be interested in the captain. He had genuinely never expected this to be so difficult.

***

It was a bright, cold day and it took Martin ten minutes to scrape the ice from his van, so he was only just on time for the moving job. He pulled up outside the block of flats and was buzzed in.

The woman who opened the door was smiling, and she shook his hand as she let him in. “I'm Rachel,” she said cheerfully. “Martin, right?”

“Right,” he agreed. “How are you?”

“Oh fine,” she said, waving a hand airily. “I'm all packed and ready. Let's get this show on the road, shall we?”

Rachel didn't have that much stuff – all the furniture was let with the flat, so it was only her belongings that they were moving. She talked to Martin easily about a variety of topics as they worked: movies she'd seen, her job, current affairs, and Martin barely had to contribute beyond the occasional comment. She seemed to find his comments amusing though, and occasionally gave him a shove in the shoulder as she laughed, which he found rather odd.

They arrived at Rachel's new flat in the early afternoon. The lift was broken, and her flat was on the fourth floor. Martin groaned, and steeled himself to do a great deal of lifting. He was going to be disgustingly sweaty at the end of this job. 

“Mm, you're clearly fitter than you look,” Rachel remarked as Martin deposited another box of books in her new living room. He stared at her, very aware of his red face and the way his hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat. 

“Well, I do a lot of lifting,” he muttered, feeling a little awkward. “I should... get the next box. I think it's the last one.”

“Okay sweetie,” she smiled. “I'll put the kettle on. You deserve a drink after all this hard work.” There was something in her tone that made Martin feel slightly unnerved, but he supposed it was her use of 'sweetie'. He had never liked people giving him pet names.

He brought up the final box and dumped it on the floor with a sigh of relief. His muscles were going to give him absolute hell tomorrow, he just knew it. Mid-thirties and he was already aching all over most mornings. 

“Here,” Rachel said, handing him a steaming mug of tea. “You look like you need it, muscles.” Her tone wasn't mocking, but thoughtful. “Thanks for doing all that – a friend recommended you. Said you were good.”

That was... unexpected. “Oh, really? Uh. Thanks. It's not a problem.”

She smiled at him and sipped her own tea. “She didn't say you were cute, though.”

Martin's stomach dropped through the floor. _Oh no_. “Well, I don't- I mean-” How was he supposed to respond to that? 

She set her mug down on the kitchen counter and took his from his hands. She was suddenly very close to him, and he backed up quickly. 

“You really are adorable,” Rachel smiled. “Look at you, all shy and nervous. Don't worry, sweetie.”

“Rachel,” he managed to say, “I- I'm flattered, I am, but I don't-”

“Ssh,” she breathed, and his back hit a wall and she was stroking his chest. “It's okay, sweetie. Just go with it, hm?” She reached him and kissed him. His heart felt like it would pound through his chest and he could feel panic closing in on him. He tried to slide away from her, but she caught his wrist and pinned it to the wall with surprising strength and sudden, intense fear made him freeze up. 

_Stop stop stop stop please stop_ he thought desperately, though he wasn't sure whether any of those words actually escaped his mouth. She was still stroking his chest and her hand was getting progressively lower.

“You're going to be fun, I can tell,” she was murmuring, her mouth close to his ear. “Once I get you nice and relaxed, of course.”

“I don't-” he whispered hoarsely. 

“Trust me.” Her hand pressed against his crotch. “Ooh, well, you don't have anything to be ashamed of exactly. Don't worry, sweetie, just let me take care of you.”

Martin wondered wildly whether he could hit her. He had shoved Harry away with no compunction, but could he hit a woman? Was it sexist to not hit her because she was a woman, or _to_ hit her? He had no idea why he was thinking about that because all he really wanted was for her to stop, and why wasn't she _listening_ to him?

“Stop,” he whispered.

“It's okay,” she breathed, kissing his cheek, and _oh God she was undoing his jeans why was she doing that?_ “It's just sex, nothing to worry about. God, you really are cute.”

“I don't – I never-” It was getting hard to breathe, and he knew he should try to push her off but his body seemed to have seized up. 

She pulled back slightly, though she did not remove her hand. “Oh,” she breathed, smiling slightly. “You've never had sex? Oh, sweetie, you have nothing to worry about with me. I'll take good care of you, I promise.”

Her hand was inside his jeans and then inside his boxers and her hand was _on_ him and he was getting hard. Why was that happening? He felt sick and dizzy and his heart was pounding in his ears and he _did not want this_. 

“Don't!” he finally managed to exclaim, wrenching himself free from her and away from the wall she had trapped him against. “Stop it, just _stop_.”

She stared at him, her expression mildly puzzled and a little haughty. “You're sure?” she said. She crossed her arms. “Your loss, I suppose.”

He stared at her, revulsion swimming through him, vaguely aware that he was shaking, but he could find nothing to say. 

He left the flat, pausing only to do his jeans back up with trembling hands, and headed for the van. He put it in gear and drove home, barely aware of his actions. It was beginning to get dark by the time he pulled up in front of the house, and his mind felt oddly blank as he headed upstairs for the shower. He stood under the spray for several minutes, watching his feet grow progressively redder under the hot water. 

He lay in bed that night and tried to block out the echoes of Rachel's voice in his head. _Don't worry, sweetie_ , she said, her tone strangely mocking now. _I'll take care of you_.

He shut his eyes tightly and pulled the covers over his head.

***

The next morning, Martin could not stop his mind wandering back to what had happened with Rachel. He could hear her voice breathing in his ear, he could practically _feel_ her hands on him. He tried to force himself to think of other things, to concentrate on getting ready to go to the airfield, but it was proving impossible.

It took him almost ten minutes to get his tie knotted correctly, and his hands were shaking so much his mug slipped from his grip and smashed to the floor. Closing his eyes, he braced his hands on the kitchen counter and breathed in slowly, trying to calm himself. He hoped that the noise hadn't woken the students; he didn't want any of them to see him in this state. 

Finally, he felt more under control. Really, he told himself as he swept up the broken mug, it hadn't been as bad as he was making it out to be. She hadn't _really_ done anything, had she? Of course, she should have stopped when he asked her to, but she hadn't forced him to do anything. He shouldn't be reacting this way: it had been a small action that he should be able to cope with.

He took a deep breath and grabbed his van keys. He wasn't going to think about it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin frets. Arthur helps.

Martin's breath was coming in short, sharp gasps and he could barely breathe properly. He fumbled desperately with the key card, his fingers shaking. He could barely see for the tears burning his eyes, though he forced them back, his throat tight. _Why_ was this happening so much? He couldn't do it any more, he couldn't. 

Finally the door light flashed green and he practically stumbled into the room. He kicked off his shoes and sank down on the bed, drawing his knees up to his chest and burying his face in against them. 

The woman in the bar hadn't been as... forward as Rachel, but she had kept asking him to buy her drinks, had leant into him, had touched his hand and stroked his arm, and the whole time he had been fighting a rising panic, remembering a wall at his back and hands touching him and a mouth on his. Douglas had caught his eye and, rather than seeing his distress, had given him a wink before raising his drink in mock salute.

That was it. He had had to get away and fast, because otherwise he was going to panic right there in the bar and everyone would find out what was wrong with him.

So now he was here, in his hotel room, crying and trying not to have a panic attack – and all because a woman in a bar had touched his hand. Tomorrow he would have to deal with Douglas' suggestive comments and questions and his knowing smirk and... 

There was a faint knock on the door. Martin froze. “Skip?” Arthur's voice called, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant. “Skip, are you okay?”

Martin hurriedly brushed the tears from his cheeks and swallowed, hoping his voice would sound normal. “I-I'm fine, Arthur. Just going- going to bed. Tired.”

For a moment, he thought it had worked. “Why are you upset, Skip?”

“I'm not upset.”

“You sound upset. Let me in, I'll cheer you up! We can watch a film or something!”

Despite himself, Martin's mouth twitched into a small smile. Arthur wouldn't judge him, and was utterly sincere in his desire to cheer Martin up. He wasn't tired really, just unhappy and shaken and he didn't really want to be alone. He slid off the bed and padded to the door to let Arthur in.

“Thanks, Skip!” Arthur crowed as he entered the room, watching Martin as he locked the door. “What happened? You've been crying.”

“I'm not crying.”

“Are you sure? Cos your eyes are all red and your hand's shaking.” Of course Arthur would choose this exact moment to become observant, Martin thought. 

“I'm fine, I promise.”

“Well, okay. It's just, if you weren't, you could tell me! I wouldn't mind! I think it's better to talk to people about things, because then it's not just your problem!” Arthur's face was open and earnest, though still smiling. “Was it that girl at the bar? You shouldn't worry about that Skip, she obviously wasn't very nice if she didn't think you were brilliant.”

Martin sighed, his shoulders slumping, and he ran a hand through his curls before he dropped back down on the bed. Arthur sat down next to him. 

“Aw, was it the girl, Skip?”

“Not – really.” Why was he talking to Arthur about this? Arthur wasn't exactly the first person you'd go to for advice on romance or sex or anything like that. Arthur wouldn't understand.

“Oh, right. Well, you'll find someone Skip, I know you will! I mean, you're really nice and you're clever and, well, you're just... you're brilliant! And anyway, that woman seemed to like you!”

Martin groaned and put his face in his hands. “That's exactly the problem,” he muttered. 

“What d'you mean? Do you like men, instead, Skip? Cos that's fine too!”

“No, no, it's not that.”

“Oh right. What is it, then?”

“I don't... like anyone.” He still didn't look at Arthur. He had never said it aloud to anyone, and his heart was pounding, his stomach twisting: what if even Arthur thought he was wrong, and broken? He didn't think he could take that.

“Oh.” There was a pause. Martin stared at his shoes. “Well, that's okay, Skip! You don't _have_ to like anyone! I mean, loads of people like football, but I don't, and that's okay. People don't all like the same things – that would be really boring!”

Martin lifted his head to stare at Arthur. “You- you think so?”

“Yeah! Of course!”

“You don't think... well, everyone likes sex, Arthur-”

“Oh yeah, sex is great. I think so, anyway.”

“- but I don't. I hate it.”

Arthur bit his lip, suddenly looking incredibly uncomfortable. “Did... Skip, did something happen?”

That someone would think that had never once occurred to Martin, and he jerked as though slapped. “God, no!” he gasped. “No, no, nothing! God!” He passed a hand over his curls, shaking his head wildly. “I've _never_ wanted anything to do with it. I've never wanted to kiss anyone, even. I've never found anyone attractive.”

Arthur shifted slightly closer. “That sounds lonely, Skip.”

“Well, it's... not, not really. I mean, I'd like... someone, but I've accepted that I probably won't. But I don't want someone who's going to... to _touch_ me all the time. There's just-” he paused, took a deep breath, and then plunged ahead. “There's just been loads of people lately who have been all over me – touching me and kissing me, and then – I can't -” Oh god, the tears were starting again, his breath hitching and his throat tight. “I helped a woman move house yesterday and she – she tried to make me –” He gave up the ghost and stopped speaking.

“It's okay, Skip,” said Arthur in a far quieter voice than usual. “Those people shouldn't have done that. You shouldn't have to have people do that to you.”

“Why are they doing it to me? No one's ever done it before – it's just been the last month or so.”

“I don't know, Skip. But you know there's nothing wrong with you, right? I mean, you're brilliant. Just because you don't like something other people like! And if _you_ don't want to have sex with anyone, then there must be other people too – maybe you'll meet someone like that!”

Listening to Arthur, a warmth seemed to spread from Martin's stomach, easing the knots of worry and tension that he had been carrying around for weeks. He felt a genuine smile spread across his face for the first time in ages. For the first time, he began to wonder: maybe there wasn't anything wrong with him after all.

***

The next day he was at breakfast with Arthur, feeling considerably more cheerful. Sharing his woes and being completely accepted had lightened his heart, and he listened contentedly to his friend chattering about whatever animal he had decided was the most brilliant.

There was no sign of Carolyn or Douglas, but soon a third person joined them at their table. One glance showed Martin that it was the woman from the bar, and he froze, staring at her with eyes wide.

“Hey,” she smiled. “Where did you run off to last night?” 

“Er,” Martin began, feeling himself flushing.

“I'm not that scary, am I?” she asked, laying her hand over his on the table.

Martin opened his mouth to reply, but Arthur beat him to it. “Hey! Don't do that!”

Both Martin and the woman turned to look at Arthur. Martin hadn't realised that Arthur's face could do any version of angry, but apparently it could. 

“Don't do that,” he repeated. “Martin left last night, so he obviously doesn't want you touching him all the time. That's pretty obvious if you ask me!”

The woman looked taken aback, but she withdrew her hand. Then, without a word, she stood and stalked away. Martin watched her go before turning back to Arthur, who was tucking into his bacon and eggs as though nothing had happened.

“Thanks,” Martin said, unsure of how to properly show his gratitude. 

Arthur simply grinned at him. “It's fine, Skip! I told you, I like helping! D'you want your egg?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything comes out.

“Still no luck with Martin.” Carolyn shook her head. “I'm almost ready to give up the ghost.”

“I wish I could mock you for it,” Douglas sighed. “But so am I. It seems we underestimated the trust extent of his uselessness.”

“Who's useless?” Arthur's cheery voice cut through their conversation. Carolyn and Douglas glanced up quickly.

“No one,” said Carolyn. “Haven't you got a plane to hoover?” 

“I'm all done! Skip's just on his way too. So what are you giving up? Who's useless?”

“Nothing for you to worry about,” Douglas reassured him. 

“Oh, right. Okay!”

Carolyn watched her son thoughtfully for a moment. He had followed Martin out of the bar the previous night – it wasn't entirely out of the question that Martin would have spoken to him about whatever was going on. “Arthur, did you speak to Martin last night?”

“Oh, yeah,” Arthur nodded, plonking himself on one of the uncomfortable portacabin chairs. “He was really upset.”

Douglas started a little at this. “Upset? Why on earth was he upset?”

“Oh, because of that woman in the bar.”

“He was upset... because a woman was talking to him in the bar?” Carolyn frowned.

“Well, yeah. He doesn't like people flirting with him or touching him or anything like that. I mean, _I_ don't really understand why, because people are brilliant, but Skip says he's never liked it or wanted anything like that, and that there's been all these people trying to kiss him and things lately and he's all upset about it because he doesn't want to.”

Douglas and Carolyn stared at Arthur, comprehension and slight horror dawning on their faces. Arthur carried on, oblivious.

“I mean, I thought everyone liked sex, but then I thought everyone liked Jaffa Cakes and it turns out loads of people hate them! And if someone tried to make me do something I hated, even if everyone else loved it, I'd feel all sad too.”

“Oh-” All three looked up. Martin was stood in the door of the portacabin, staring at Arthur. His face was pale and stricken, and it was clear that he had heard every word. Without saying anything, he turned and walked away.

Douglas met Carolyn's gaze. “Oh God,” he muttered.

“My thoughts exactly,” she agreed, getting to her feet. “Get the silly boy back in here.” She headed after Martin.

“Martin! Martin, wait!” 

He came to a halt halfway across the car park, but didn't turn to face her. The line of his shoulders was taut and unhappy, and his hands were thrust deep in his pockets. Carolyn approached him carefully, as though he were a wild animal.

“Martin, come back inside.”

“I'd rather go home, I think.” His voice was tight and unnaturally controlled. 

“Just for a minute. We have some things to explain, and you need to listen to them. Come on.” She touched his arm, but he jerked it out of her grip.

“I don't need to talk about it. And if I did, do you really think I'd talk to you or Douglas?”

Carolyn frowned. “Well, you should. Because we're going to try and help.”

At that, he whirled around. His eyes were glittering with tears, his lips set in a thin line. “Help?” he exclaimed, voice rather high-pitched. “What, because there's something wrong with me? Because I already _know_ that, but I can't _change_ it. Believe me, I've tried! I've been like this all my life and I've _tried_ to be different but I can't-” he broke off, breathing harshly.

“Martin, calm down.” Carolyn gripped his shoulder tightly. “We think nothing of the sort, and neither should you. Come and have a cup of tea and we will talk this over properly. And don't for one minute think I'm giving you a choice in this.”

His face crumpled and he nodded grudgingly, rubbing the back of his hand roughly over his eyes. Carolyn led him back to the portacabin and practically pushed him into a chair, where he stared fixedly at his hands. Arthur was dispatched to make tea. Carolyn and Douglas sat themselves down on either side of Martin.

“We owe you an explanation,” Douglas began abruptly. “And – and listen carefully to this Martin, because you're not likely to hear this often – an apology.”

Martin lifted his head and gazed blankly at the first officer. “What?”

“We-” Douglas sighed and glanced at Carolyn. “We had a bet.”

“A bet.” Martin's voice was expressionless. 

“Yes. We... realised that you seemed to be having trouble talking to women so we decided to... help things along.”

“I don't-”

“You weren't supposed to know about it,” Carolyn cut in. “The first one of us to get you to meet someone you went on a successful date with would win.”

Martin stared at her. “So... so all those people, all those women-”

“We set it up,” agreed Douglas. “We were trying to help.”

“No you weren't,” whispered Martin, his face still worryingly devoid of expression. “You were trying to humiliate me. Again.”

The strained silence was broken by the entrance of Arthur, who dumped a tray of tea mugs in the middle of the rickety table.

Carolyn and Douglas exchanged a glance, neither of them sure of how to respond to Martin's accusation.

“Do you have any idea,” Martin continued, his voice trembling now, “ _any_ idea how it feels to be like this? To be so – so wrong? To not feel the way anyone else does, to be so... alone, all the time, and knowing you'll never be able to fix it?”

“Martin-” Douglas began, but Martin raised his voice, talking over him.

“And _them_ , when you've accepted that sex is something that, for you, is wrong and frightening and... and...” He was close to tears. “ _Then_ you have people t-touching you and trying to kiss you and trap you and you can't make them stop and you have no idea what to do and the whole time you're panicking and yet you _know_ that you're the one that's wrong, so when one of these people starts trying to _force_ you you can't do anything-” Finally he stopped, breathing hard. “Congratulations,” he whispered. “If you wanted to humiliate me, you succeeded.”

“Good lord,” whispered Douglas. “I- Martin, we had no idea it was like this. None at all.” 

“No,” agreed Carolyn, looking shaken. “If we'd known, we'd have stopped it. We're sorry.” Arthur was staring from Carolyn to Douglas, his mouth slightly open. He looked dumbfounded.

“But didn't you wonder,” Martin rasped, “why your plans weren't working? If I were as _desperate_ as you thought I was... did you not wonder why I wasn't taking anyone up on their offers?”

Carolyn sighed. “We assumed you were rather hopeless.”

“Great. Just great. Well, on that note, I think I'll be going home. Do you need a note of resignation, Carolyn, since I'm essentially a volunteer?” he actually pushed his chair back and got to his feet. Carolyn and Douglas stared, dumbstruck. It was Arthur that sprang to his feet and grabbed Martin's arm.

“Don't go, Skip!”

“I'm sorry, Arthur. I know you had nothing to do with this, but I can't-”

“You- you can't go. Please, Skipper. Stay.”

“Martin, please listen,” Douglas said. “Just listen, for a few minutes. Then you can decide what to do. Okay?”

Martin didn't sit down, but he didn't move. He stood with his whole body tense. He nodded once, jerkily. 

“We don't have any excuses,” Douglas began. “We don't. But we had no idea that you were asexual, and there is _nothing_ wrong with you. At all. You shouldn't think that.”

Martin stared at Douglas, eyes narrowed. “Asexual?” he repeated, as though he were trying the word out.

“Yes,” said Douglas, frowning. “Isn't that what you said you were? That you aren't interested in sex?”

Martin stared at him. “Well, yes...” 

“You didn't realise,” Carolyn said suddenly. “You didn't realise that people could be asexual.”

Martin shook his head mutely. Carolyn sighed gently. “Oh, Martin. You thought there was something _wrong_ with you?”

“Martin, sit down,” Douglas said. Clearly still uncertain, Martin sat down. “Look, some people are straight. Some are gay. Some are bisexual. Some are anywhere in between. Some people want lots of sex, and some people only want it sometimes. Some people – asexual people – aren't interested in having sex at all. There is _nothing_ wrong with you.”

Martin was silent. He was clearly thinking hard, trying this explanation out and fitting it into his own idea of himself. Finally, he looked up. “Really?”

“ _Yes_ ,” said Carolyn firmly. “Oh, Martin. You silly boy. You're absolutely fine how you are. We would never have done this if we'd known you weren't interested.”

Martin shook his head. “I believe you, I think. I just... I can't... I need to think about this.”

This time, no one stopped him as he left the portacabin.

***

**From: Douglas Richardson:** _Martin, reply to my messages. Let me know you're all right._

**From: Douglas Richardson:** _Stop being stubborn and just reply._

**From: Douglas Richardson:** _I will come round and knock on your door until you open it._

**From: Douglas Richardson:** _You're being a clot._

**To: Douglas Richardson:** _I'm fine. Stop texting me. I'll talk to you when I want to._

**From: Douglas Richardson:** _See? That wasn't difficult._

**To: Douglas Richardson:** _I know this is hard to understand, but can you stop interfering in my life for a few hours?_

Martin dropped his mobile onto the bedside table and slumped back against his pillow. He was angry with Douglas and Carolyn for their interference, for what he had been put through because of their _bet_. And if he hadn't told Arthur, it would have just gone on and on, because neither Douglas nor Carolyn would have given up.

He groaned and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. He was angry with them, but the anger was slightly dimmed by what they had said earlier. _There is nothing wrong with you. You're absolutely fine how you are_.

It didn't fit. He had over twenty years of feeling wrong, of being convinced that he was broken or deficient in some way, and that wasn't something that was easily overcome. He had never been presented with any evidence to the contrary, after all.

“Asexual,” he mumbled to himself. It was a strange word, almost clinical. The only time he had ever heard that word was on wildlife documentaries about amoebas or other sea creatures. He had a momentary image of himself as a ginger sea cucumber, and giggled. Maybe he'd reproduce by budding.

He sighed, letting his hands drop back to the bed. He had known for years that he was this way, and he knew it wasn't going to change. But if it was a genuine.... _thing_ , then he could find out about it. Maybe he could talk to other people who were this way, if there were others. Arthur's words echoed in his mind for a moment, _”if you don't want to have sex with anyone, then there must be other people too – maybe you'll meet someone like that!”_

Someone like that... Staring at his ceiling, Martin felt his chest tighten. He had resigned himself long ago to being alone, to never having a relationship or a partner. But if there _were_ other people like him, then maybe it wasn't an impossibility. Maybe somewhere out there, there was someone who would be happy to be with him, would want to... to cuddle or hold hands, without any of the messy invasiveness of sex. It wasn't a _complete_ fantasy, surely? 

Usually, he hardly ever let himself think about it, but as he dwelt on the possibility his entire being seemed to ache with a vague, unmet need. God, he was so _lonely_.

Martin gave himself a mental shake, pulling himself from his negative thoughts. He forced himself off the bed: he was going to find out more about this asexuality thing, work out what it meant and what it could mean for him. To do that, he needed tea. 

***

Two hours later, Martin was sat in front of his old computer, its fan whirring noisily, with a notepad full of scribbles balanced on one knee. He could barely stop himself smiling: finally, irrevocable proof that he was _all right_. There were hundreds, _thousands_ of people out there like him! He had made a hesitant post on the forums of the AVEN website, admitting that he had only just learned what asexuality was, and within ten minutes he had received several warm replies from supportive, friendly people who reassured him that he was fine, and welcoming him to what he learnt was called the “ace community”.

As he lay in bed that night, feeling comfortable in his own skin for the first time in years, he decided that he couldn't be as angry with Douglas and Carolyn any more: they had seemed genuinely sorry, after all. He would speak to them tomorrow, try to patch things up. Everything would be fine.

***

“Morning, Martin,” Douglas said, an uncharacteristically wary note in his voice. He was sat at the rickety table, filling in the flight plan. Martin stared for a moment: Douglas _must_ be feeling bad if he was doing the paperwork. 

“Morning,” he replied, dumping his flight bag and sitting down. 

“And how is _sir_ this morning?” Douglas sounded almost normal, but there was still an uncertainty in the way he regarded Martin. 

“I'm... I'm all right. Where are Carolyn and Arthur?”

“Sorting out the cabin.” Douglas put his pen down. “Do you want tea?”

Martin stared. “What?”

“Tea, Martin. A hot beverage made by soaking leaves from-”

“I know what tea is. I'm just not used to you making it.”

“Well, I want one, so I may as well make you one at the same time. It's not an entirely selfless gesture.”

“Well... yes. Thank you.”

Douglas nodded and stood, heading to the small kitchenette at the back of MJN's portacabin. Martin bit his lip for a moment. If Douglas didn't bring yesterday up, then he would have to, and he had no idea how to start. He briefly considered just leaving it and carrying on as normal, but it was far too enormous an elephant to fit in the room. He fidgeted in his seat as Douglas boiled the kettle and made tea, twisting his fingers together.

Douglas put his mug down in front of him, the one emblazoned with “CAPTAIN” that Arthur had got him for his birthday. Martin mumbled his thanks and took a sip. The two sat in awkward silence for a moment, before Douglas spoke.

“Look, Martin, about yesterday-”

“It's fine,” he interrupted. “Well no, no, it's not fine, not – not entirely. I'm still annoyed with you. And Carolyn. You had no right to do what you did.” Martin paused, took a deep breath. Douglas looked on the verge of speaking, so he plunged ahead. “I'm all right, though. I... did some research yesterday, found out a bit more. And I think I'm... okay. Yeah. Okay.” He couldn't prevent a small smile tipping the corner of his mouth.

“Good,” said Douglas slowly. “I'm glad.” There was silence for a moment as they both drank their tea, before Douglas shoved the flight plan across the table at him. “Here you are then, _sir_. Flight plan to Oslo.”

“But you were doing it!”

“What? And take the _captain's_ responsibility? Oh no, Martin, this is _your_ job. Besides, you always redo them anyway.”

Martin scowled and yanked the flight plan towards him. “Fine, I'll make up for your supreme laziness. Again.”

“Excellent.” With that, Douglas leant back in his chair, picked up his paper, and began doing the crossword. Martin glared at him for a moment before turning back to the flight plan. The only sounds were the scratching of his pen and the rustling of Douglas' paper. Everything was... normal.

Ducking his head, Martin couldn't quite hide his smile.


End file.
